11/29/86
(development, death of what happened, Monks' House, Shropshire)
The verdure was terrific. That was the first thing, massive embryo knots and scallywag rhizomes, the foliage, the dew with its glints. Cathy looked and her eyes were a party of schoolmarms gone public in their unchastity. I resented her, I resented this forest. I resented the stature of the Philippine Revolution as it artificially snagged in the birch. As it snagged a man leaned out and proclaimed my Cathy to me from a scroll that reached to the ground. "Hasty assumptions she never destroys! Your misgivings do reach their object! The people are aware of her power!" I hated this man who was? yes--simpering in false majesty of engineered accidence. I engorged myself with my hate and empowered it, allowed it to grab a stick and take a swipe that missed by inches; the Revolution moved up a branch. I asked Cathy if I could use her shoulders a moment. "You're losing perspective, darling. This is a revolution." I clacked my teeth as the Revolution turned on its camera lights. "The Revolution of facts! This is the Philippine Revolution! In this, the forest. The forest for our amusement. The forest for love." Cathy was entranced and the man in the Revolution waved to her in between outbursts of propaganda. I grabbed her arm and--burst! it was solid. It was hard. Burst! I was tired. My legs were bending all over. I was growing perceptibly softer. I felt I might suddenly spread, ooze, cream out my insides right up to the beckoning embouchure of the next metropolis. The man in the air was getting tired, too, as he proclaimed ever more succinctly the virtues of my rock-hard Cathy, his Revolution, their forest. I noticed then that Cathy was glowing, at first faintly around the edges, then brilliantly all over. The point of radiation seemed to move within her, and she expanded each part to englobe it. She was huge, her eyes now headmistresses in ointment, and I nailed the force of my assumptions to the birch until it fell, with a dismal, fluid plop, to the soft, sparkling-clean surface of this euphoric computer of purchase we were calling the forest.
9/30/56
An early birthday surrounded by relatives! Tried to extract my mambo from their interp, found a certain reason lacking, intelligent grasp, mature fluidity. Closed in on the least of them, extracted forthwith rum, coins, a sense of the ideal. (Flogged himself after.) (Found dead in a cabinet. Teeth?) (Interesting because he'd been noticing my teeth.) "Teeth!"
Extraction?
7/12/89
There is a wolf and it is partying in my pants. It is raising its great wolfy head and, full with the brine of apocalypse, is roaring inside-out about latex and the smooth bends of its own complexion, the same toilet complexion of Born-Again Jesus and patty-cake in the staterooms of Kansas. It is alone in a room, this wolf-pants combo, and really it's static, there are blobs, occasional blobs, little bubblings too, rivulets of this or that going prrrrrroot! prrrrrrroot! down the hideous toilet complexion--the wolf is a mighty he--in this room--this eerie room, a room with sadness to it. "This is where they make the mighty 3Z17," the snazzy young guide told us. "This room is sure to go down in..." The 3Z17, it turns out, remains void of description, a secret engine, disaster-causer perhaps, perhaps grief-bringer to the multitudes, not to be known by any save the grown in the art of populace.
Wait, maybe I'm wrong. My pants are moving. The wolf in my pants has noticed 3Z17 and is sort of bubbling under the skin, a cute, gentle bubbling of nothing at all, and then it's suddenly haranguing the spectators, adult, in the way of the large-nosed De Gaulle, Updike, ethnics. He is at first quite fluent and then as the notions get tricky it's "sumuuurrrrrfff, sumuuurrrrrfff, sumuuurrrrrfff," and closet Bo does the correct thing, kitchen Rich does the correct thing, they all assume their variegated poses with one intent in mind: extraction.
Extraction?
12/1/67?
Invalid:
Producing extreme, distracting contractions of the glottus mediagolmis. Am finding it hard to concentrate on the matters at hand, the matters at hand, which the shining jewel of careening benevolence Adolf Braunschweiger says are the matters at hand, the matters at hand. This is hard because the switch, the radio, certain wavelengths of radiation all speak to me, endeavor on my bands with their manifold attractions, derelictions, propriety. Causing contractions. Consider the chessboard: a slogan arises. "Che's bored of revolution! Only pawns!" But more, more in the media, more than any slimy matrix of desires ever bargained for: cheese on Sunday, curtains in the Palace of Sausage, polysorbate-60. And the revolution plays itself out in Adolf, assuming greater tones as we lapse in our daily attention, lapse lapse lapse.... Larger, larger: the new army planes flown by those who have "swooned," who have "spiralled" into the utmost sphere of correct endeavor, the matter at hand, who are charming at it, who glint from the edges of our perception in their absolute perfection of attachment, attachment, these new planes, carrying no passengers, certainly none who have denied the absolute centeredness of the matter at hand in their actions, tones, affections, common-sense reactions to loss and development, these new planes have only two wheels on the wings, the rear having been removed in favor of a fuel tank, one in the front as well.... A ticket is hard to get but if you get one it's the matter at hand and they take off and when you all agree you land and then the only way to keep from blowing up is to keep going quite fast with ailerons 37 degrees or so all the length of the runway and then some quite far and fast until the fuel is all used up and then we need something new to think about. Departures on the minute. Why don't you take these planes and consider the similar things with rabbits, endives, roots, the cringing in the wings, adrenalin infusions, trucks.... I mean I'm living a life, the matter at hand suggests itself to me, and I'm living a life, want to live a decent life, enjoy the matter at hand with its manifold joys and the matter of contractions confronts me and I descend! Down pits of hell. Amen. Amen. It's gone.
3/18/01.
Overheard at the Chung Bible Emporium:
"Angora kitty, speak attractive
slogans like 'meal, meal' or
'holy as the fragments of his decency's chasuble'
for me in my restaurant
I own a restaurant
and stagger I don't care if you stagger stagger
to hell for all I care stagger out
the true remnants of my glo-
ry past for me in my restaurant
I am a discotheque"
9/9/89
The Architects.
Oh it is odd indeed that the men in charge have trumped the charges against these entrepeneurs and denied them all access to deep history. When in fact it is in the nature of the thing, we living in those, that has fettered their endeavor. That has rent their desires, scattered their would-be emolument, fragmented the nations of their teeming rises. No, nothing. Nothing at all. Can save the builders of our scape